[ Dean Winchester wakes up careful, but he does not wake up easy. There's an undeniable measure of wariness in his posture, in his eyes, in the silent steps he takes as he navigates through an unfamiliar house. The bed across the room, be it empty or housing a sleeping body, will get a long and scrutinizing look before he creeps away toward the hall. A framed photo of himself catches his attention; grey and tan and white, smiling wider than he has in years, standing with his arm thrown around somebody that distinctly is not his brother. What ultimately pauses his Stealthy Sleuthy Creeping is the jingle playing out on the world's oldest television. His voice comes out in an incredulous whisper. ]

What the hell?

[ Whatever the case, it breaks his silence and therefor all his effort at moving around undetected. After that, anything's fair game. Photo albums get ripped off of shelves and flung open for a hasty and unthorough look at photographs of himself with people he doesn't recognize. Vinyl records get pulled out, scoffed at, and then flung over his shoulder with the air of a man too good for whatever it was he just read.

This distrust and bad attitude will linger for the first several days. You can find him poring over books, photos, any material he can find look for a clue or a discrepancy, looking for anything. Subtly and oh-so-charmingly grilling the neighbors when they come by to drop off food, which he... actually does eat with some amount of gusto for the first couple of days.

Until the gelatin molds. Until the god damn molds. After that his smile becomes strained, shifts to disgust as soon as the door slams shut in Whoever McSally's face, and he flings it onto the dining room table without a speck of care. ]

I swear to friggin' god if I get one more Jell-O mold I'm gonna shoot myself in the face. This is freaking disgusting. Who the hell puts-- is that sour cream? Is that sour cream in a Jell-O mold? That's it, I'm killing everyone. Just. Everyone.

[ As the days and weeks pass, Dean's attitude calms down to something reasonable — most of the time. He's still relentless in his pursuit of answers, but he does it in an almost impressively charismatic way. He slips in like a chameleon to talk shop with the neighbors, nice hedges Ron. How's that deck coming, Steve? You seen any of those racoons out by the garbage cans? Little rascals. Mixed into the perfectly pleasant conversation are gauging questions about the town. You hear about that bus crash? What was the deal with that guy? Anybody that you can think of he's got beef with? Who's the mayor? Say, you wouldn't happen to know where I can find some town records?

He's even festive on Halloween itself, because ya boi has an unrepentant sweet tooth. Costumeless but also shameless, he strolls on up to a door with a couple trick-or--treaters. Holds out his hand with a beaming smile, accepts his candy bar, and strolls away already ripping the thing open to take a bite.

He makes it all the way to the sidewalk before cursing loudly, freezing, and reaching slowly in to pull a freaking razor blade out of his gums. Blood spreads between his teeth, spills over his lip, and he stares at it in uncomprehending disbelief.

And then rage.

Watch a grown man fling a razor blade and a candy bar onto the ground, then storm right on back up to that house to start pounding on the door. ]

Open up you son of a bitch! What the hell's your problem? So help me god if you don't open this friggin' door—

[ He knows what's up as soon as the static on that television starts rising. It brings him a long beat of pause, and then as soon as he gets his shit together he starts tearing open cabinets, flinging cans and spices and boxes of flour out onto the floor in a desperate search for a tube of salt. Thin lines go down in front of the front door, the back door, the windows, anywhere with an opening — he's only part way through the biggest living room window when the knock comes. It freezes him in his tracks, tube still in his hand, unmoving. If anyone's around, they're getting a sharply barked, authoritative: ]

Don't answer it!

[ Salt's abandoned in favor of snatching up the nearby fireplace poker like a bat, and then he creeps around to subtly nudge the curtain enough to see through the gap.

"Trick or treat."

Except their clothes are sopping wet and ragged, falling apart, and their voices — Dean calls out with his back pressed against the wall. ]

We're all out!

[ Not dissuaded, the knocking becomes a pounding. Polite voices become demanding, a cacophony of chanting "Trick or treat," and he sighs quick like he's gearing up for something. ]

Well, it was worth a shot.

[ And then they break through the window. So begins Dean's clearly well-practiced unapologetic technique, bashing in tiny little skulls with the fireplace poker until they overrun the house. He goes staggering across the lawn, searching out patterns, trying to figure out why the hell some houses are getting tagged and others aren't. Along the way, he'll swoop in and whack the heads of any kids attacking civilians. ]

[ come at me with anything, I love to improvise. hit me up with questions at rifting ]